


Bargaining

by SolemnlySwearing



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolemnlySwearing/pseuds/SolemnlySwearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Snow is a bastard, and everyone in Winterfell knows it, particularly Catelyn Stark. Eager to impress, Jon spends most of his time keeping his face straight. Yet when Jon Snow falls ill with the pox, Lady Stark is his unlikely savior. A one-shot about the Starks of Winterfell. Pre-Song of Ice and Fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bargaining

Jon woke up shivering. The bleak stone walls of his bedroom did little to block the frigid winds of Winterfell. His furs mysteriously vanished the day before, so his feet were white with the cold, sticking out a few inches from the wool blanket. He grew in the past few months, but the furs covered him sufficiently so he’d never thought to ask for larger wool blankets. 

There was a loud knock on the wood door.

“Snow! The Lord is riding out, and yer called for!” Jon didn’t know to whom the voice belonged, but he was all too well acquainted with the tone. He did not groan as he pulled his body away from the warmth of the blankets, in case he was heard, and put his bare feet on the cold ground. They were numb. 

He stretched, feeling the aches he received from the previous day of sword training. Jon flinched, and spotted the black oval on his hip where Robb landed a blow. He made a face, and threw on his tunic. It was a bit too small for him, a hand-me-down from Robb. He always got Robb’s hand-me-downs, even though he was the same age as little Lord Stark. 

Once he put on just about every tunic he owned, and found his cape, which thankfully, had not been victim of the fur raid, Jon opened the wood door to face the cold. 

The Summer Snow’s were here. Little flakes were floating down from the sky, without any real purpose. Frowning, Jon stomped off. 

Jon hated snow. It was always bitterly cold, and it got one’s clothes all messed wet, not to mention it made it hard to see anything. Septa Mordane took to telling stories of the long winters, and trying to scare Arya and Bran into some sort of obedience. 

Mostly, he hated that he was named after snow. 

Jon Snow. 

They might as well have named him Jon Bastard-Son and been done with it. As if it wasn’t enough for Lady Stark’s disapproving eyes to follow him where ever he went, or be reminded every time his father introduced his family, that he did not belong. He hated the pomp and circumstance of the formal dinners when the other Lords came to pay their respects to Lord Stark, but he hated being seated on the side with Theon Grayjoy, on equal grounds with the son of a traitor. 

He had a lot in common with Theon. Both of them were generally disliked by the people of Winterfell; both of them were being punished for crimes they did not commit; both of them lived eternally in Robb’s shadow; both of them were treated very well by Lord Stark, who had every right to ignore or hate them both; both of them were on Lady Stark’s hit list. 

Yet Jon always found himself opposing Theon. Theon was proud: you couldn’t get within a few feet of him without hearing about the bravery and strength of the Iron Islands. Whether or not this was true, Jon doubted that Theon was considered brave and strong by anyone. Theon went down to the brothel at least once a week, if not more, and Jon took cares to stay as far away from it as possible. Theon liked to bully Bran and Arya, and Jon rather liked the two rascals who were infamous for getting into trouble around every corner, and blissfully free of the prejudice that everyone else regarded him with. Robb once possessed this ignorance, but as he grew into his duties he began to hesitate at just the right moment to clue Jon into his status of inferiority. 

Jon could stand Theon, but eating dinner with Theon was a bit like trying to ignore a foghorn when you’re sleeping: difficult, and annoying. 

“Snow!”

Jon looked up. Robb was walking towards him, his gray furs piled around his shoulders, flecks of snow caught in his auburn hair. 

“They found a deserter, and we’re to accompany Dad.” 

“To the beheading?” Jon asked. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the custom; every now and again Lord Stark would leave to bestow the consequence of a broken oath. More than once, Jon wondered what the consequence of breaking an oath to one’s wife was, but he had neither mustered up enough courage to ask, nor convinced himself he wanted to know the answer. 

“Scared of a little blood?” Robb asked.

“Are you?” Jon replied roughly. 

“Saddle you horse, we leave soon,” Robb said before walking off. Jon watched his half-brother walk way, eyebrows raised in the middle. Robb was full of bullshit. He was just as worried as Jon was—ten years of being raised together meant that Jon could read Robb like a book. Robb feared that he had too much of the South in him—it certainly manifested itself in his looks. While Lord Stark, Jon, and Arya all had the black hair of the North, the rest of the children took after their mother, looking more like the Tully’s of Riverrun than Stark’s of Winterfell. Jon hadn’t realized how much it bothered Robb until Theon teased him about it one day.  Theon, thickhead that he was, didn’t see the anger in Robb’s eyes, and therefore was surprised when Robb tackled him to the ground and broke his nose. Lord Stark told Robb off for that, but Jon never doubted that Robb didn’t regret it. Jon might have helped if he wasn’t busy thinking about the implications of Robb’s reaction. 

The beheading would be a chance for Robb to prove the Northern blood ran in his veins. The Stark’s had beheaded the deserters for generations. The one that passes the sentence must execute it. This trip meant more to Robb than he was prepared to admit to his bastard brother. 

Jon’s horse blew air into his face as a welcome, which smelt awful. Horse shit still smelt bad, even in the cold. Jon’s curly black hair fell into his face as he hoisted the saddle into place and secured it. He hadn’t named the horse yet, partly because he couldn’t think of a good enough name for his first horse (a gift from Lord Stark) and partly because he might have promised Arya she could name it for him. In retrospect, it was probably a bad judgement call on his part, but he wasn’t about to recall the favor now. 

Several stable boys snickered as Jon led the horse from the stables. 

“Cold feet, bastard?” one called, and they all burst into giggles. Jon kept starring straight ahead, ignoring the calls. At least he knew who stole his furs. He could spend the horse ride North contemplating how to best get it back.

“Jon,” a deep voice called, and Jon looked up into his father’s face. The kind face was wrinkled, and the black hair had hints of gray creeping into the roots, but the gray eyes were steady and fierce as ever.

“Father,” Jon said, stopping.

“It’s important for you to see this. I know you hope to take the Black, and I want to impress upon you the finality of that decision.”

“Uncle Benjen told you?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, I’m not angry,” Lord Stark said. An attendant rode up beside the Lord of Winterfell, and with a nod to Jon, Eddard turned away. 

Jon mounted his horse, and waited for the procession to move in a moody silence. He wasn’t sure he wanted Uncle Benjen to tell everyone of his little dream. Perhaps he was foolish to think that Uncle Benjen wouldn’t tell father.

There was a horn from the front, and the line of horses moved forward. Jon looked up as he passed through the gates of Winterfell, and he could have sworn he saw Bran looking on from one of the towers. The boy was always climbing.

“Jon!” Robb drew level with him. “Ride with me. Theon’s driving me crazy.”

“Did he murder some kittens yesterday?” Jon said dryly. Robb frowned at Jon, clearly confused.

“Why would he do that?  
“He was talking about paying the iron price—oh, never-mind,” Jon said. Robb was a decent boy, but he could be thick sometimes. 

“So, beheadings,” Robb said, looking ahead. It was Jon’s turn to give Robb a puzzled look.

“I heard that you got a new sword forged,” Jon said, taking the conversation down a different path. He wasn’t sure that Robb wouldn’t loose it if they talked about beheadings all the way to the event.

“Yeah, Master Aemon says that it is time for me to get a heavier sword. I heard you lost your furs,” Robb replied.

Jon glared at Robb. 

“What? I think we should two-tag them, and steal the furs back,” Robb said. Jon grinned, suddenly filled with happiness. Robb wanted to beat them up for Jon. Robb wasn’t in on the joke, he was trying to help him out. Sometimes, he really, really liked his half-brother. 

 

It took about an hour for them to reach the spot. The hilltop was adorned with a large, white stone, which was curved in the middle to the shape of a human neck. The stone was stained red. 

Robb dismounted beside Jon. Neither said a word. 

“Should be fun,” Theon said, leading his gray mare past the two half-brothers. Jon and Robb exchanged a look, and walked forward. 

Lord Stark was standing by the front of the stone. A scraggly man was standing on his knees next to the stone, dressed in all dark furs and hair cut pell mell. His face was covered in black dirt, which was streaked down the checks from tears; he was shaking violently, but not from the cold.

Jon sneezed. 

“I, Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, sentence you to die.” 

Robb shifted his weight. A strong gust of wind came over the hill, and for a few moments Ned’s words were lost in the howl of the wind. By the time the wind died down again, Ned stopped talking.  

Jon sneezed again. Ned took his sword from Theon, who quickly backed away from the Lord of the North. Ned was still standing like a pillar against the harsh gray sky, the kneeling criminal shaking, and the horses pawing the grown and snorting. For a moment, Jon thought to turn away from his father and brother, to go to his horse and burry his face in her mane. 

Ned shifted his weight, swinging the broadsword around his head in a graceful arch, landing on the axis vertebrae of the criminal’s neck. The head rolled off of the shoulders, and a fountain of blood spurted out onto the brown grass. 

Robb looked straight ahead, his jaw muscles clenched tight. Theon let out a little snort, and turned away from the bleeding corpse.

“Robb,” Lord Stark said. He didn’t glance at Jon, just at the pale, ginger boy staring directly in front of him. 

“I’ll go check on the horses,” Jon muttered to no-one in particular before heading off. When he got to his horse, he looked back. Eddard had his hand on Robb’s shoulder, while his eldest son studied the ground intently. As Jon watched, Robb looked up, and Ned grinned. Jon felt a bit sick as a his stomach clenched. He turned back to his horse, angry with himself. It made no sense to be angry with Robb. Jealousy would help no one.

Robb didn’t say anything on the way home. Jon road with him in silence, the image of blood dripping onto the dead grass repeating in his mind. 

 

Dinner for the Stark children was generally held in the kitchens. Cook didn’t mind, as it gave him a chance to flatter Robb and Sansa with food. He was less welcoming of Jon, Arya, and Bran, as they had several times broken pots and pans running around and playing games. 

Tonight, Robb ate barely anything. Arya was blabbering on about the beheading, plying Jon and Robb for details. Jon would occasionally give her a short remark, but Robb was too busy starring broodingly into his stew. Sansa was sitting up strait as an arrow, and would periodically yell at Arya to stop being morbid. Bran was watching Robb, and Rickon was yelling about his pony. 

“Are you alright, Jon?” Bran asked.

“What?”

“You’re sneezing. A lot.”

“Just a bit cold,” Jon said, catching Robb’s eyes.

“I’ll speak to them,” Robb said quietly.

“It’s fine,” Jon said forcefully. Arya and Rickon went quiet, watching Jon and Robb glare at each other over the table.

“You’ll freeze, there will be winter snows tonight,” Robb said.

“I’ll fight my own battles, thanks,” Jon said. 

Robb looked up angrily. “Fine, freeze to death, Jon. That’ll be a really great way to fight people, as a frozen pillar.”

Jon left. He went to his room—chilly—and lay under the remaining blankets. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

 

Lady Stark was woken in the dead of night by Maester Luwin. Ned shifted beside her, but stayed asleep, murmuring about oath-breakers. 

“What is it?” she asked, looking into the Maester’s blue eyes.

“It’s Jon. Robb went to find him a few hours ago, and he’d gone into fever. We’re not sure what it is, but the fever has been burning almost all night. I’m … I’m not sure that he’ll make it through the night.”

“But how did he contract it?” Catelyn asked, sitting up. “No one else has been sick.” 

“His furs were stolen a few nights ago. He’s been sleeping just under the wool. He must have picked up the pox after getting a cold. If he makes it through the night, he’ll live, but …”

Catelyn Stark almost smiled. She hated Jon Snow. He was walking, talking proof that her husband had been unfaithful to her. And he could die of natural causes, and the friction that had always existed between Ned and herself could be absolved … Catelyn looked over at her husband. 

He was breathing lightly, his hair in his relaxed face. As she looked at him, she saw Jon in his features; in the hollows of his cheeks, and the profile of his nose, and the innocent expression he wore as he slept. 

Jon Snow was an innocent, ten year old boy. 

“I’m coming,” Catelyn said, rolling out of bed, and pulling her furs over her. She followed Luwin through the walls of Winterfell. She couldn’t remember the last time she went to Jon’s room. It must have been years and years ago, when he was still a toddler. Luwin pushed open the door, and let Catelyn in first. 

Jon was lying pale on the bed. Robb sat by his side, looking glumly at his half-brother. Catelyn noticed that Robb’s fur’s were covering Jon. 

“Mother!” Robb said, jumping up. “I—I just wanted to apologize to Jon and he was all pale and his lips were blue, and covered in sweat … he won’t die, right?”

Catelyn looked at her ten year old son. His eyes were wide, and he was trying very hard not to cry. Robb might be the heir to Winterfell, but he was still a frightened little boy. She smiled at him.  _Her son, her beautiful Robb_  … 

“Go get some rest, Robb,” she said. “I’ll watch him.” Robb nodded, realizing that he was being dismissed. He walked toward the door, then turned again, to look at his Mother.

“Don’t let him die, Mother,” he said, and then disappeared. Catelyn shared a desperate look with Maester Luwin, and then glanced down at Jon Snow. He was more pale than normal, dark circles under his eyes, a pattern of light pink pox marks covering his skin. He was shivering slightly, despite the light sheen of sweat covering his face. Catelyn took the seat Robb just vacated, and pushed Jon’s black curls off his head.

She could see Ned in his face. She was a horrible person—Jon wasn’t responsible for his father’s actions. In fact, the only person who Catelyn wanted to die was already dead—Jon’s mother.  

“I’ll leave for a moment,” Luwin said, eyeing Catelyn, and moving out of the door. Catelyn ignored the Maester. She was trying to think of now many times she’d wanted him dead. When he was a boy, and beat Robb horseback racing, when she caught Ned laughing with Jon as he played with a wooden sword, when he went horseback riding with Robb and brought Robb back to Winterfell after he fell of his horse … such little things. 

_Please_ , she thought, folding her hands together.  _Please keep him safe. Jon Snow does not deserve to die._  

She stood up suddenly, eyes burning. She rushed out of the room, past Maester Luwin, and down to the Godswood. Twigs, vines, flowers, Catelyn grabs them all. She bundles them up in her skirt, not noticing the cold or the snow floating down around her. 

She returned to Jon’s room, after loosing her way once. Maester Luwin cast her an odd look. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice light.

“A prayer wheel to the Faith of the Seven,” she said, her fingers jerking agitatedly. Luwin’s white eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t comment. She tugged twine through the twigs, securing them together.  _Let Jon live … if he lives, I’ll forgive him. I’ll convince Ned to make him a full-fledged Stark … I’ll treat him like he is my own son … Please, forgive me for wishing him dead … let him live._

Lady Stark worked through the night. When the moon came out, the wheel was done, and she fastened it above Jon’s head. Then, she watched him. She watched him until the light broke through windows. The light reflected lightly off Jon’s pale skin, and as the castle began to come alive, a trail of smoke coming from the smithy, and the horse boys frolicking in the Great Keep, the hollers as men called across the castle, Jon’s breathing eased.

Catelyn gazed down at the boy lying in he son’s furs. 

His black eyes opened.

**Author's Note:**

> The words are mine, the characters and world are George RR Martin's. 
> 
> Reviews welcome.


End file.
